The flames of the yajna roared high.
Sacred smoke coiled upward in slow spirals, carrying mantras into the sky. Yet beneath the rhythm of ritual, a sharper tension now pulsed through the vast grounds — the tension of words that could not be taken back.
Sati stood before her father, Daksha, her posture straight, her hands clenched at her sides. Around them, devas, sages, and celestial beings watched in uneasy silence.
Ganesh felt the fire within him twist.
The yajna fire was no longer only ritual.
It was becoming judgment.
Daksha's gaze swept across the assembly.
"Let all hear this," he declared. "This sacrifice honors those who uphold the order of the worlds through law, through rite, through duty. It does not honor one who rejects them and calls himself beyond."
Sati's voice rose, clear and trembling.
"You speak of Shiva," she said, "as if he were a rebel against order. But he is the root of it. The stillness without which no law can stand."
Daksha laughed sharply. "Stillness? Or refusal? He shuns the courts of gods, shuns the councils of sages, sits in isolation and calls it greatness!"
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Ganesh took a step forward.
"This is no longer debate," he said firmly. "This is insult before witnesses."
Daksha's eyes snapped to him.
"And who are you," he demanded, "to speak in my hall?"
Ganesh met his gaze, unflinching.
"One who walks dharma where it trembles," he said. "And who will not be silent when dharma is struck."
Daksha sneered. "Then walk away, if my hall offends you."
Aneet stepped forward beside Ganesh.
"We would," she said calmly, "if your words did not wound more than just us."
Daksha turned back to Sati, his voice hardening.
"You chose this ascetic over your own blood," he said. "And now you come to defend him here, in a place built by discipline, not by ashes and wandering."
Sati's eyes filled, but she did not look away.
"I chose truth," she replied. "And he is its embodiment."
Daksha's voice rose.
"Then let your truth sit alone on his frozen mountain!" he thundered. "This yajna will proceed without him — and without his shadow over it!"
The flames surged higher, as if echoing his words.
The Saptarishi could no longer remain silent.
Vashistha stepped forward, his voice firm.
"Daksha, pride blinds even the disciplined. A sacrifice that excludes the source of all is empty, no matter how grand its fire."
Vishwamitra added, "You speak of order, but forget that order without humility becomes tyranny."
Atri said softly, "You wound your daughter more than you wound Shiva."
Daksha turned sharply.
"Enough!" he barked. "Even sages forget that I am the master of this sacrifice! I will not have my authority questioned in my own hall!"
Gautama shook his head. "Authority that fears questions is already weak."
The air crackled.
But Daksha raised his hand, and the priests continued their chants, louder now, as if to drown out dissent.
The ritual pressed on.
Ignoring wisdom.
Ignoring pain.
Sati stood silent for a long moment.
Then she spoke again, her voice quieter, but far more dangerous.
"Father," she said, "I came here hoping to remind you of who you once were. Of the man who taught me that pride is the first enemy of dharma."
She looked around at the blazing altar, the gathered gods, the towering pillars.
"Now I see that you have built a throne for pride itself."
Daksha's eyes blazed.
"You dare judge me?" he shouted. "You, who abandoned your lineage to follow a mad ascetic?"
Sati's breath caught.
Ganesh felt it.
This was the wound that cut deepest.
Aneet leaned closer to Sati. "Devi… breathe. Do not let his words drive you."
But Sati shook her head gently.
"No," she whispered. "If I remain silent now, then his words become truth."
She turned back to Daksha, her eyes shining.
"You say Shiva is unworthy of your sacrifice," she said. "Then know this — a sacrifice that denies him denies the very fire it burns."
Daksha's voice rang with scorn.
"Then leave!" he roared. "Take your wandering god and your wounded pride with you!"
A hush fell.
Sati closed her eyes.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause.
Ganesh felt a deep chill.
"Devi…" he began.
But Sati lifted her hand slightly.
"I came as your daughter," she said softly to Daksha. "And as his wife."
She opened her eyes.
"But I will not leave as one who accepts this insult."
Daksha scoffed. "Then what will you do? Curse me? Weep before my fire?"
Sati took a slow breath.
"No," she said. "I will show you that your fire holds no power over the truth I carry."
Ganesh's heart pounded.
He stepped forward sharply.
"Sati!" he called. "Do not!"
Aneet's eyes widened. "Devi, wait—!"
But Sati had already turned toward the blazing altar.
She walked slowly, each step deliberate, as if walking toward destiny itself.
The flames leapt higher as she approached, casting fierce light across her face.
The assembly watched, frozen in shock.
"What is she doing?"
"She wouldn't…"
"She cannot…"
Sati stopped before the fire.
She turned once more, looking back at Ganesh and Aneet.
Her gaze was full of sorrow… and gratitude.
"Tell him," she said softly, "that I did not leave him. I returned to him."
Ganesh felt his chest tighten.
"Devi, please," he said, his voice breaking. "There is another way."
Sati smiled faintly.
"Perhaps," she said. "But not one that will awaken him."
Aneet shook her head, tears in her eyes. "You do not have to carry this alone."
Sati replied gently, "Some flames can only be entered by one heart."
She turned back to the fire.
Daksha realized then what was happening.
"No!" he shouted. "Stop her! This is madness!"
But no one moved.
The moment was too vast.
Too terrible.
Sati closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and whispered:
"Mahadeva… I come."
Then she stepped into the flames.
A blinding light burst forth.
The yajna fire surged like a living storm, roaring upward as Sati's form vanished within it.
A shockwave of heat and light tore across the grounds.
Priests fell back.
Devas shielded their eyes.
Sages cried out.
Ganesh felt it like his heart had been torn open.
"No…!" he shouted.
Aneet dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
The fire slowly settled.
Where Sati had stood, there was only light fading into ash.
Silence crashed down upon the yajna grounds, heavier than any sound.
Daksha stood frozen, his face pale, his mouth open, unable to speak.
The sacrifice fires still burned.
But the ritual was dead.
Ganesh rose slowly, his entire being trembling.
He looked at Daksha, his voice low and burning.
"You wanted to show the world your power," he said. "Now you have shown it your cost."
Daksha could not answer.
Far away, beyond sight, beyond sound, on the silent heights of Kailasa…
Shiva's eyes opened.
And the world began to shake.